Mind Game
by L'Arc en Coeur
Summary: FranceXUK. Francis is feeling a bit lonely. Perhaps Arthur can keep him company?


AN: Hey everyone! This isn't a new story. Just a kink meme fill I did. I like this one better than one I did previously, but I think I'll post the other one too...eventually. Well, enjoy~

**Mind Game**

He could hear the faint ringing of some obscure oncoming force. He had no idea what it was, only that it rang and rang and rang and continued to ring without the slightest intention of ceasing. Arthur's head, resting on his desk, turned to the side and watched as the fire alarm's signal perfunctorily lit. It flashed and flashed in accordance with the ringing and drove him to the ends of sanity then back again.

"Bollocks!" he cried. "Another fire? What kind of damned moron would cause another?! That's the third this week!"

He looked about the classroom. Students conversed as if nothing was occurring and the teacher continued lecturing, writing complex formulas on the board coupled with two or three lines of arcane prose and Arthur, so far above his peers and teachers in both intelligence and class, felt little obligation to notify them of the apparent danger. He simply alighted from his seat and made his way to the door.

Ugh, how he wished to escape that irritating noise. It grew louder with each step he took. But how? The alarm was on the side opposite the door. His face contorted and a face of bewilderment and disgust plastered itself on his façade.

"Bloody hell?" he profaned as he turned back and eyed the curious flashing monstrosity.

He advanced quickly, wanting to see if he could deduce the reason as to why such a mundane piece of technology was defying every law of physics. But it stopped.

Arthur, thoroughly irritated, returned to his desk and resumed sleeping over his History of AmeriCuba, an act that was only just short of shameless.

His consciousness began to slip away—the Briton was quite proud to say that _he_ was able to tell when he was falling asleep since it was so obviously a treasured skill. Ah…the strangely deafening silence of student conversation slowly subsided. Sleep had claimed his body, it was too late. Ah, that strange ringing and flashing that beckoned him to return to the world of the living was too distant to claim him. But, its siren song remained adamant and continued to prod his brain with increasing influence.

Arthur opened his eyes and saw only red and orange and yellow. His clothes caught fire and he stared at his arms as his covering fell from his body. Desperately, he looked at the class for assistance. The distracted students could care less about their peer and they continued gossiping and that idiot of a teacher, too ignorant to see that his pupils were not the least bit interested in the Science of Mathematical Literature and Mythical Studies, had not turned to observe his class for five hours.

Ahh! It hurt! It burned! The searing heat cooked his tender flesh and he cried. Arthur jumped from his seat.

Uah!

Sweat beaded at the Englishman's forehead. The back of his head ached furiously. His eyes, tightly shut, would not investigate his situation, but once his heart slowed to a manageable pace, he welcomed the sight of the new world.

Wait, where was his teacher? There was nothing, only a dark room, a bedroom. He knew this since he lay right next to the bed in a tangle of sheet and blanket. The light continued to flash; he saw its reflection against the stucco ceiling. There too, was that irritating ringing. Ah shit. He crawled to his knees and lifted himself onto his king-sized bed. Scuttling across the mattress, he intercepted the phone call.

"'Ello…" he muttered, only half conscious.

"Ah, Arthur! _Mon amant_, tu es bien?"

Fuck! That irritating voice!

"What do you think you're doing?" the Englishman quickly checked the time on his phone.

2:37 A.M.

"What do you think you're doing, calling me at these God forsaken hours?!" he would have profaned with all his volume, calling Francis a plethora of derogatory names…but he had neighbors.

"Oooh, Arthur, I got lonely. I wanted your company!"

"Francis, I haven't time to deal with you! Fuck! Can you just go to bed! If you're scared, go call Matthew and ask him to sleep with you, but for the love of England herself, leave me alone!"

Arthur tossed the phone back onto the side table and deflated on his bed. He cried with frustration into his pillow and then lay still. Silence for a moment…

"_Mais_, Arthur! I called you with a purpose!"

He had only thrown it…not hung up.

"What purpose…?" he said, head still deep in his pillow.

"_Comment_?" said the Frenchman. "I can't hear you."

Reaching over, Arthur picked up the phone and put it near his face.

"I said, what purpose?" he made it blatantly clear that he was irritated.

There was a pause across the line; Arthur hoped that Francis had hung up or that his battery died or—

"Ah, hahah, _mais mon amant_!" Francis offered only a chuckle. "_Le sex, bien sûr_!"

His heart skipped a beat. Arthur threw himself from his position and glared at the phone angrily.

"You bastard! Get off the phone and let me sleep!" he screamed.

"What? You don't want to play? Aren't you lonely over there with that huge bed of yours?"

"How would you even remember what my bed looks like. You haven't come over in so many months I'm surprised you even remembered that I _had_ a bed."

The Frenchman giggled again, "Fine, I'll leave."

"Like shit you will!"

"Eh?"

Arthur now lay on his back, phone resting on his chest as he contemplated what he should say next. He moved the phone and pressed the speaker to his ear.

"Take off your clothes…"

"What?"

"I said, take off your clothes. Are you daft, man?"

"Pushy, _non_?"

There was a shuffling on the other side, two soft thuds, and more shuffling.

"Okay, so now you take off your cloth—" the Frenchman began, but he was sequentially cut off by his English partner.

"Say nothing. Now…" Arthur took a deep breath.

A shiver ran up his chest and caused him to arch involuntarily. He felt powerful. Francis, who was so desperately in need of sexual attention, would do anything to involve himself with Arthur. The Englishman chuckled when the sensation quickly subsided. Francis was like that, he was always so needy.

"Now…"

"Arthur…" the Frenchman replied with such subservience that Arthur felt a sadistic desire spark within him.

The Briton chuckled, "Finger yourself…"

More shuffling came across Arthur's line, but it was quickly followed with sensual moans.

"And think of me…" Arthur added. "I'm there, right at your thighs…"

Describing everything was more difficult than Arthur had imagined. He bit his knuckle as he contemplated a most attractive, poetic method of conveying actions he was so unused to. Francis, after all, often threw himself onto Arthur and therefore often topped.

"Right now, I'm pushing them apart as I make way for myself. You're being pretty selfish by not giving me any room to move, you know?"

Francis replied with a hesitant, helpless gasp. Arthur could barely control his laughter. He was learning the power of words. How could something so abstract hold so much influence? But, no, he wanted to continue. His heart was skipping beats as he felt the adrenaline pulse through his veins.

"But I'm not going to ask you if you're ready, oh no. I just put myself right into you with little to no regard for your own comfort," he rattled on.

The statement was followed by a series of sighs, moans, and gasps.

"A-Arthur…" the trembling lover's voice called from some unknown distance, "stop being so...s-sadistic…"

But the English partner was so engrossed in power.

"And then I grab your cock, Francis," Arthur directed. "And rub. Up and down, up and down. Can you feel me? My breath on your skin?"

"_L'Angleterre_…" Francis muttered.

Ah, that voice. It was so much less aggravating when it was that needy. The broken gasps, the fluid sighs. Arthur knew why Francis was so adamant to top. These sensations—heart racing, mind aware—they were nothing short of addicting. Arthur's hand brushed across his chest and slipped by the elastic band of his pants. His guilty pleasure weight little on his mind; he felt no need to push his body up against a non-existent partner. No, this time, _he_ was getting pushed up against. He loved it, the flavors of dominance. And gently, he allowed himself the ministrations that Francis would have given him. His breathing heightened, but he never lost control because he _had_ control. The soft exhalations matched Francis' dependent cries.

"Go in deeper," Arthur commanded as he felt himself being sucked into distant pleasure.

"A-ah! T-That's too far…"

"Do it, I'm thrusting as far as I can because that's how I can best take care of you…" his words trailed off into whispers.

"A-Arthur!"

Damn, the Englishman knew what was coming. He felt it too—that hardness, that knot deep within his pelvis. It hurt, burned with urgency.

"Francis!" Arthur cried as if it were a command.

A guttural cry echoed across Arthur's room followed by a softer, contented, more present sigh.

The wetness seeped into the mattress and Arthur lay sprawled across the dirtied sheets. His breathing was fast, but slowed to a sluggish rhythm.

"Francis?" he asked.

The rickety voice responded with a broken 'oui'.

"Clean yourself up and go to bed…." The Englishman said with greatest control.

"_Bien sûr_."

Arthur cut the phone.

Francis sat upright on the nice, soft bed in silk pajamas. The phone in his hand lit up as the line terminated. Turning to his reflection in the mirror, Francis eyed the face of a most sadistic, manipulative young man. His mouth was twisted into an uneven smile and his eyes were frenzied with an otherworldly cunning.

"Francis, you're a bastard…" he chided himself as he set the phone onto the side table and ducked under the very covers that adorned the bed during that whole ordeal.

And Arthur thought he was going to top. Hah! Well, that was going to be Francis' little secret.


End file.
